Time Will Heal
by proflig8
Summary: One would think he'd be hot. Burning. Scorching. Dean/Sam, S4, not exactly a happy ending.


It's been one month since Dean's come back from hell and one hour since he and Sam have started this… nameless _thing_.

It's been one minute of coming down from the high – both of them – and they're on their backs; Dean's looking at what might be a cobweb and Sam's wondering how the ceiling got that crack. The sex was good. Great, actually.

Sam starts smiling then, all happy and content with life. He seems to be euphoric that Dean's not having a oh-god-I-just-slept-with-my-brother freak-out. Dean pointedly ignores him.

"So I guess we'll check out the family's old house tomorrow during the auction. Maybe we'll find a cursed object or something."

"Dude," Dean snorts, "you're not seriously bringing up the case _now_, are you? It's been, what, two minutes? I wasn't good enough for you?"

Sam laughs and lolls his head in Dean's direction. "We _normally_ talk about the case around this hour," he explains, and Dean realizes Sam's trying to keep this as close to 'normal' as possible when the fact is it's _not at all _but he lets it slide. "What, you wanted post-sex cuddling or something?"

"No," Dean says, a little too quickly.

His brother doesn't comment, though, only exhaling a puff of laughter and turning away from Dean to get comfortable on his side. They're lying in Dean's bed, so it's a small relief that Sam's not going anywhere.

Despite Dean verbally rejecting the notion of cuddling, he wanted to. Sam's back felt like a barrier. He had a lot of barriers in hell. Solid ones that Dean couldn't see through, only _hear _the sounds of pain eliciting from his brother while Dean was powerless to help. He was never allowed to actually _see _Sam, though, because that would be too generous – even if Sam was dying, at least they could meet eyes and Dean could transmit how sorry he was.

But that never happened, because Sam wasn't in Dean's hell. That fact was a large part of what gave the place its name.

Dean's still lying on his back, feeling cold; they're in Wisconsin and the weather decided to be a pissy bitch and make it cloudy and dark and pouring rain.

There's a flash of lightning outside – no thunder yet – and Dean flinches. Sam's breath is the only sound in the room, and the spaces between his breathing are evening out. He's on the brink of falling asleep.

Putting on a brave front, Dean casually turns to the side and strings an arm around Sam's waist. His forehead finds a fitting place between Sam's shoulder blades, and already he's feeling so much more comfortable, having Sam _there _and alive beneath his hands. He's not as cold anymore until he hears Sam scoff playfully.

"Seriously Dean? Spooning? Didn't think that was your thing." As he speaks, he rolls the rest of the way onto his stomach so that Dean's hand is now on Sam's back. The message is pretty clear, but Sam opens his mouth anyway. "Sorry, dude, this is just a little weird."

Dean retracts and turns over to face the other direction, feeling the chill wash over him again. One would think he'd be hot. Burning. Scorching. And he _was _fired in hell – who wasn't? But it's the cold that got to him. Icy, lonely cold.

He's hurt, Dean, and he hates himself for it _so much _but he's weak and he hates that too.

He waits for Sam to fall asleep, and when he does, Dean grabs his coat and keys and leaves.

The rain pounds down on him. It's worse than Dean thought. He slides into the impala's front seat feeling cold, wet, and miserable. He doesn't know where he plans on going. If this were a few days ago, he'd be enticed by the idea of visiting the local bar and hooking up with some girl. After he came back from hell, all he wanted was physical – well, _good _physical – contact.

But now there's Sam.

He idly wonders how much it would cost to pay a prostitute to platonically cuddle.

As he drives, the road is also isolated and he feels more alone than ever until he hears, "You're upset."

The impala swerves into the median and retreats back into his lane, all while Dean's cursing. "Seriously, dude, you _gotta_ warn me when you do that." He's not sure what he's feeling when he sees Castiel. He won't admit the flood of something that feels like safety, because Cas is sort of his guardian angel. The one that pulled him outta the hole. Even when Dean thought he sure as hell deserved to be there – especially after thirty years, when –

"Sam isn't with you," Castiel observes, and Dean swallows and rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, congrats, braniac. Why're you here?"

"I believe you would call it 'checking up on you,'" he says, and Dean glances at him, a bit startled.

"You're worried about me? Touching."

Castiel hesitates just a moment, which is weird because Dean didn't know angels _could _hesitate, but Cas has been picking up human traits the moment he took over that vessel. "You feel like you don't deserve to live. I thought perhaps you were going to do something you'd regret."

It takes a moment to figure out that Cas is implying he thought Dean wanted to kill himself. To end it all.

Dean snorts. "That depends. Do I go back to hell or make it to heaven?"

"Dean," Cas says, and there's a hint of warning in it.

"Relax, Mom, I just needed some air."

And then Castiel sort of stares at him for a long while, attempting to get a read on Dean. "If you need some sort of comfort, I could—"

"No, dude, but thanks," Dean says quickly, aware that Cas knows _exactly _what Dean needs, and he feels a weird fondness of the angel seep into his veins. Castiel has no need or desire for physical contact, and he's only known Dean for a month, which is like a _second_ in angel-time or something seeing as they live forever – so it's … _nice _that Castiel is there for him.

Cas goes quiet again, and after a few quiet moments of driving, he states, "Regardless, you should go back to the motel, Dean."

Dean doesn't respond because by the time he opens his mouth, he's alone again.

He drives about a half of a mile more before turning around and heading back.

When he unlocks their door, it flings open and Sam's _there_, looking ready to rush out with frantic eyes and a gaping mouth. "Dean! It's almost 3AM – where the hell did you go?"

"Out," he says honestly.

"Dude, you can't just – I thought –"

"What, Sammy?"

Sam lets out a breath. "Nothing, I just… I was worried. You didn't leave a note. I thought you'd freaked out and decided to leave or something."

Dean pushes past Sam, and sits down at the small table near the window. "Yeah, well I didn't. Go to bed, Sam."

But his little brother looks sort of wrecked, and it dawns on Dean that he's not the only one that lost a brother after he went to hell.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he says, voice lilted with enough teasing that Sam's tense form relaxes. Sam turns away, considers, and then decides to kiss Dean once, chastely, before going back to the bed. He's asleep within minutes.

Dean quietly rummages through Sam's stuff to find a hoodie that is less-worn than the rest of his clothes. He pulls it over his head and treks over to the unoccupied bed and collapses on top of the comforter. He crosses his arms and watches Sam's silhouetted torso form rise and fall. The sound of his breath coupled with the scent of him wrapped around Dean's shoulders eventually lulls Dean into a stilted slumber.

His bed is still cold.


End file.
